Style & Perfection
by BizGirlCharlie
Summary: *ch 4 up!* Rico likes Torrie but not only does she not know he exists, she doesn't even know he's straight! Please R&R, weird pairing, I know
1. Chapter 1

Title: Style and Perfection 

Rating: PG-13 at the moment. Will go no higher than R, I promise. Contains adult themes, some language and minor slash (B & C)

Summary: Rico likes Torrie but not only does she not know he exists, she doesn't even know he's straight!

Disclaimer: I've met Torrie Wilson and she's as sweet and lovely as I try to write her in this fic. Rico is an absolute champ who stole the show at Global Warning. That said, I don't own either of them, the WWE does. I do, however, own a very annoying Rico muse who won't let me write slash but demanded to be the leading man in a het fic. Go figure. I don't own the song either, but it's by Tal Bachman…putrid poppy crap that my Rico muse just happens to love. Again, go figure. 

A/N: Who the heck would be crazy enough to write this pairing? Me, that's who! Last night my brand new Rico muse would not shut up until I wrote this…we're talking midnight with my biggest day of lectures up ahead. So, having written it, I hope he's happy.

Rico: Oh, I am…or at least I would be, if only we could do something about your fashion sense.

Me: Look, just shut up, okay? I'm very tired and…hey, weren't you Rikishi's unwilling tag partner once? Do I sense a non-con slash fic?

Rico: (cringing) I'll be good!

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She calls to speak to me

I freeze immediately

'Cause what she says

Sounds so unreal.

But somehow I can't believe

That anything should happen.

I know where I belong

And nothing's gonna happen

'Cause she's so high, 

High above me, she's so lovely.

She's so high, like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc or Aphrodite.

She's so high, high above me.

She is a vision, the most captivating creature on earth; a goddess, if you will, and she walks these halls with the most glorious innocence shining in aquamarine colored eyes that I drown in every time, as though they were truly the ocean. My life has been spent in pursuit of beauty, of falsifying appearances and concealing flaws in people who want to be better than they are, more beautiful than they are. But I can't touch her, because perfection can't be improved upon. It just is. 

She would have no idea of the awe with which I look upon her. She, like nearly everyone else around here, probably thinks I'm gay. I'm not, you know. I mean, just because I prefer Barbra to Barkley, ballet to baseball, 'The Color Purple' to 'The Thin Red Line', it doesn't mean I sleep with other men. Though even my own mother wouldn't believe it if I told her, that's how I am. A closeted heterosexual.

My worship of her should not come as a complete surprise, however…Torrie, I mean, not my mother. After all, I have always had a thing for blondes. Just look at all the things I've managed to do for my two beautiful boys. Of course, Chuck has problem skin and Billy's age is finally starting to get the better of his hairline, but I work with these issues – that's what they pay me for. I make over the outside, ensure that their teeth are white and as glossy as correction fluid straight from the bottle, that their bodies are well oiled – that Billy's trunks perfectly accentuate the fact that, even at the dark side of forty, he has quite an ass and that Chuck's are sure to tell everyone the truth…that Billy is a lucky, lucky man. If only I was gay, life would be easy. My boys have often told me I can join the fun whenever I want and yet I'm still the one who spends night after night on my own, dreaming of her.

"Hey Rico."

Okay, so that nearly makes me crap my pants, which wouldn't exactly be the most shining example for me to set for all the sweaty, stinky lugs that inhabit the locker rooms. But I compose myself, slowly, and turn to flash her a winning smile.

"Torrie Wilson." And then I inwardly curse myself for not adjusting my clothes as I would normally when confronted with an opportunity such as this.

She seems perplexed, just the hint of a frown taking over her perpetual smile. "I just wanted to tell you…since you're a stylist and all…the collar of your jacket's standing up and it makes you look kinda like Elvis. I just wanted to know if you were doing it on purpose, if it's some kind of new fashion I don't know about."

I reach back and nearly die of embarrassment. Not only is my collar standing up, it's half up and half down, so there's absolutely no way of covering it. I'm supposed to be a stylist and here I am, a walking, talking faux pas. I have to change the subject, before I'm exposed as the fashion disaster of the new millennium. 

"I'm so glad you noticed, Torrie. Developmental fashion. Tres Nouveau."

"Oh really?" she asks, giving a fascinated smile that forms the dimples I long ago decided I wanted to stick my tongue into. "I thought so…I mean, you always seem to have your finger on the pulse of the fashion world."

'That's not all I'd like to do with my fingers,' I think, grateful for my time in the Academy when I learned it's best not to always speak your mind.

"With a world so fascinating, how can anyone afford not to?" I postulate and she smiles again, giving a little nod.

"Oh, I know," she agrees. "I love fashion. And now Stacy's gone it's great that someone else understands. Well, see ya. I'll have to check out that developmental style. Bye Rico."

"Torrie." Spontaneity stops her, because I know it's not me. But stop she does and now I have to say something. "Your hair. If you're staying with platinum, you really should use a leave in treatment every day. Breakage would be an absolute tragedy."

"Yeah," she nods. "But don't worry. I've got extensions and I trust my hairdresser with my life. She's a goddess. Bye!"

'Yes, Torrie,' I think as she walks away, all style and grace in a body that must have been made in heaven. 'A goddess. That's what you are.'

I don't know why I even entertain the notion. It doesn't matter that we just spoke. The conversation only began because she was being the sweetheart she's always reputed to be, by helping to nip my own personal fashion disaster in the bud. It doesn't mean she's interested, or even that she particularly cares for my existence. For she's a goddess and me, a mere mortal. It would never work, no matter how I try to convince myself otherwise. But oh, she's lovely and a day like today, a day where she speaks to me, a day where she smiles and those dimples come into play, well, that's about as beautiful as a day can get.

* * * *

So, I lost. To Rey Mysterio, a fashion disaster in himself. And now, walking back to the locker room ready to tell the boys what I think of them for getting themselves thrown out in a most unstylish way, I realize that, if I had the chance, I would change a few things. Now, don't get me wrong, Rey Mysterio is not a bad-looking man. He has the kind of youthful features that won't change seriously over the years. It's just that he could do so much more! First of all, the pants. Yes, they work, adding much to his neo-hip hop personality, but the white ones he wore a few weeks ago really did nothing for me. Far, far too bland. At least he made an effort this week with the yellow. I don't have a problem with the mask itself, knowing that, underneath, the haircut is…well, face it. The boy has no hair. But if I was to cover all my hard work with a lucha mask, I'd choose a different one…one that sculpted more closely to my facial features and accentuated my cheekbones. And those hideous contact lenses - they have to go. Rey has beautiful chocolate brown eyes. He shouldn't hide them under lenses that could only possibly be there for shock value. Just a few minor improvements could go such a long way, in Rey's case. You see, it's not enough to "look good" in the ring. You have to look _good_. And true, I may not have won the match, but few people look better in a tight T-shirt than I do and I dare anyone to challenge that statement.

I push open the door to the locker room and there are my illustrious tag team, all over each other like white on rice…or like Chuck on Billy as the case may be. One of these days I guess I'll learn to knock. Like I said, I love my beautiful boys, but if I wanted gay porn, I'd rent it. I say nothing as I walk over to collect my towel, change of clothes and all important beauty case, ready for my shower - first five minutes on warm, last five ice cold - does wonders for both skin and hair. My boys don't even notice me and I'm gone before they realize I've been there at all.

After a thorough session with the exfoliating body scrub (looks and smells divine) and the moisturizing shower gel, with a separate pH balanced facial cleanser, of course, and being careful not to let any residual water come in contact with my hair, I shut off the jets and towel dry carefully before toning and dressing in my streetwear, ready for the night ahead, wherever that may take me. Usually it takes me, Billy and Chuck to a gay club or bar, which I realize is not the best way to meet women, but they are my friends and, unfortunately, I'm outvoted, two to one. Still, gay clubs know how to throw a good party, they play good music and they're always serving up the most gorgeous cocktails. Even so, I'm wondering what my boys would say if I tell them that tonight, just for once, I want to go to a normal bar, with normal people and listen to normal, ghastly classic rock. They'd probably tell me what I already know - that second hand smoke in such a confined area does just as much damage to the skin as if I was actually smoking. I've taught them too well. Both proud and depressed by this realization, I head out of the shower block, preparing to wait outside the locker room until my boys are ready to go.

And that's when I see her, my goddess, something that would normally put the goofiest of smiles on my face. Except that this time, she's not alone…and the person she's with has his arm around her…

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A/N: So, what do you think? Should I go on? I dig it, but then, I dig Rico so perhaps that makes me more bizarre than most. Please review me!!!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All wrestlers are owned by WWE. The song "I Want Your Girlfriend To Be My Girlfriend Too" is by the very awesome Reel Big Fish, whether my Rico muse likes it or not

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There's a little girl I know,

You might know her too.

She looks so good, she looks so cute

Standing next to you.

And I don't know what to do…

So I'm just walking down the hallway, wearing my leather jacket over another tight T-shirt and with my shades where they should be - over my eyes, so as not to mess my hair when I've just spent so long restyling, and I see her, a vision of loveliness, as always. I want to kiss her, and not only because she's wearing candy pink leather pants with a sheer black long-sleeved but midriff-baring top, thus shunning the current blasé style of peasant tops and flowing skirts. They work for some, but not for Torrie. You see, Torrie doesn't need little girl dresses and skirts to show her femininity. She is gorgeous, she is sweet and no matter what she wears, she always looks incredibly sexy. Still, I love the fact that she's a fashion leader, and not a fashion victim. How can that ever be a bad thing? 

No, a bad thing is the fact that someone has her arm around her and that someone is Billy Kidman. That's right, a man who feels that a backwards baseball cap and greasy hair are legitimate forms of expression when you're nearing thirty. I want to tell him…tight white singlet…good…belted jeans…also good, especially if your thing is construction worker chic, but someone needs to get to him once a week with a clarifying shampoo that will actually relieve his hair of all that product he must use in order to make it so depressingly greasy. And that's before I even get started on his ring attire. And yes, he's not a complete loss. He has a nice face, good skin and wonderful cheekbones and, like me, he realizes that prominent teeth make for a stellar smile. But I can't even give him that much credit right now because he has Torrie and therefore I hate him. 

I can feel the beginnings of tears fill my eyes and that's so what I don't need right now, especially with my anti-redness eye drops back at the hotel, so I suck in my chest and my pride and keep walking. Maybe Billy and Chuck are finished so we can leave this place and I can forget this ever happened, focussing my attention on a new diva. Dawn Marie, perhaps? Now there's a woman who's in desperate need of a stylist.

"Hey Rico? Wow, we keep running into each other tonight."

And just like that, she's talking to me and I have to come up with something to say. Something that will knock her out of those shoes…oh, are they Prada? Stunning.

"Stylistic magnetism," I reply enigmatically and she takes this on board, turquoise eyes portraying her thoughts. 

"Yeah," she nods at last. "Speaking of that. Billy…" She lays a single delicate hand on his chest, right over the strap of his singlet. "Remember I was telling you tonight about developmental style? Rico was the one who told me about that."

"Oh yeah?" Kidman asks, eyeing me somewhat suspiciously, but he clearly doesn't see me as a threat, because he goes on with the last thing I was expecting. A compliment. "Well, I don't know much about designers or labels, but you've got some talent. Your match with Rey-Rey was fantastic. And don't feel bad that you lost. See, you and me are good, but Rey's out of this world."

"So, what are you doing right now?" Torrie asks, gripping tightly to her boyfriend so her voice reaches me before I even had a chance to reply.

I shrug nonchalantly, or at least nonchalance is what I'm shooting for. "Oh, just waiting for Billy and Chuck to get themselves decent before we make an appearance at a club or two."

"Hey, that's what we're doing!" Torrie cries, sounding genuinely excited and it's all I can do to keep myself from drooling. But of course, saliva would be a disaster as it would necessitate wiping it away and I know better than to touch my face after I've finished cleansing, toning and moisturizing. Even freshly washed hands can replenish their oil stores with frightening speed. "You can come with us if you want to. Tell your friends where we're going so you can meet up later. Then you won't have to wait. He can split a cab with us, right, Billy?"

"Sure," Kidman shrugs. "If we're all going the same place."

"Then it's settled," Torrie nods. "Rico, go talk to Billy and Chuck, then we can go. Okay?"

Okay? Was that okay? What, is she crazy? She is my goddess. Of course I want to go clubbing with her. Just wait until she sees me dance. That's something I know Billy Kidman won't have on me and maybe, just maybe, I'll impress her enough to show some interest in me as more than someone who just happens to know a little something about fashion.

"If it's okay with the two of you, it sounds delightful."

So that's how I happen to find myself in the backseat of a cab, sitting so close to Torrie Wilson that our thighs are actually touching, and I'm staring at those legs of hers, those magnificent legs, and wondering what it would be like to run my hand along one. And so sue me, I decide to find out.

She whips her head around to face me, nearly flicking Kidman in the face with her hair, and even in the dark she looks confused and perhaps a little offended. Instantly I decide that it's time to make like a fat person in a thong bikini and cover my ass. 

"That finish is phenomenal," I gush, touching it again for good measure. Firm but supple and I feel like I've died and gone to heaven, not just because it's Torrie but also because it really is great leather, glorious to touch. "Where _did _you get these?"

"Oh, you like them?" she smiles and again my dimple alert is going positively off the charts. "Some little boutique in LA."

"Well, they're fabulous," I announce, finally putting my hand back in my own lap, much as I don't want to.

"Thank you," she replies, cocking her head slightly to look me straight in the eye and I'm glad she goes on because at this moment I'm really not capable of speech. "That really means a lot, coming from you."

It's not until she finally looks away that I manage to exhale and resume breathing in the normal way. Oh, she is so beautiful, so sexy and I want her more than I've ever wanted anything, even more than I want tickets to the new season Valentino runway show. But now she's talking to Billy Kidman and I've lost my chance, if ever I had a chance to begin with. Still, I allow myself hope. We're still to reach the club…

* * * *

I love it here. The bass in the music reverberates through my body, bringing me to life as if I'm waking from a sleep in which I never knew I was trapped. And yes, it's smoky to the point of being stifling and there's wall to wall sweaty, gyrating people, but I decide my lungs can handle this single night of decadence and, as for the people, here they are, swelling all around me like a dazzling, multicolored hot air balloon. And I look at them all, men and women, with their amazing clothes and flowing waves of hair and I know one thing for certain. I've come home.

I've lost Torrie and Kidman in the crowd, but at the moment that just doesn't matter, because I'm here, I'm dancing, and it's swelteringly hot, and I'm sweating like Rikishi at an all-you-can-eat buffet and this is probably playing havoc on my skin, but I don't care because I'm dancing, I'm moving, I'm happy. I feel alive.

A girl moves into me and it takes me a few moments to realize that I'm dancing with her, but suddenly I'm sure and I look at her completely for the first time. She's pretty, not too tall, but thin, perhaps too thin in a red sequined halter-top and form-fitting black pants. A cascade of chestnut ringlets swirls crazily about her head as she moves to the music, moving, dancing, close to me, our bodies touching. She has large facial features, wide hazel green eyes and full lips and she blends her foundation well, but her lipstick is just too dark, too bright for the rest of her face. I want to tell her this. I want to tell her that a plum or mauve would look amazing with her coloring and that a convertible push-up bra would do far more for her obviously small breasts than a halter top and no bra at all, but I hold my tongue because she's not Torrie, so she's not perfect and that's not her fault. And besides, I don't even know her name, but I do know that this is the closest I've come to a woman since before I joined the WWE, before people started recognizing me and I'm not going to blow it for the sake of a few minor style flaws, even if I myself wouldn't make them in a million years.

I stop for a drink, something wildly alcoholic and certainly not my first for the night, but she finds me again and we pick up right where we left off. 

We're dancing even closer and I hear her yell something, though I can't make it out over the music. I do notice her teeth, however, and one is slightly crooked, making me wonder why she hasn't sought orthodontic treatment before now when she's obviously well into her twenties…like my gorgeous Torrie.

"What?" I shout back, craning my neck to try and lip-read her even as she yells right into my ear.

"You're an amazing dancer!" 

"Thank you," I grin and suddenly her mouth is on mine and it's nice because we're still dancing, our bodies still moving together, still gyrating in time with the music. Her lips are soft against mine, she tastes good and from here I can smell her perfume, picking it immediately as Estee Lauder's 'Beautiful'. So what if she's not who I want to be kissing? It feels good, she feels good, my body's hot and so's hers and we're really getting into it now, her hands inside my jacket and sliding along my torso and mine in her hair, in those long flowing curls that I've already decided are most certainly her best feature. And the music still pounds in my ears, the beat and the bass strong and steady, like it too is a heartbeat, the center of the hot, swelling body that is this club. 

And then there's a firm hand on my arm and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back on the dance floor, having been well and truly sucker-punched. Before I can pick myself up, I'm being hauled to my feet by the lapels of my jacket and I'm staring into angry blue eyes. I decide that now would be a really good time to put into use all of my martial arts training and I begin to fight back, but the crowd suddenly parts for us, surreal as that sounds, and then we're outside and it's cold out here. The music still plays, still beats on but it's muffled now by a concrete wall and I get a look at him, at my attacker, for the first time. He's about my height, wearing average male club fare, nothing special, but the frosted tips of his hair are so three years ago I just want to die from embarrassment on his behalf. But here's a young man who obviously thinks he has something to prove because he's screaming at me, screaming about his girlfriend and then he's trying to hit me again, but I counter, as I would in the wrestling ring, and trap him in a sleeper. He tries to struggle and of course this only tightens the hold, but just when I think I'm the one who's proved a point, I hear more voices.

"Hey, it's that Rico dude from the wrestling."

"Oh yeah, WWF."

I want to correct him, but this could be my out. Not that I'm afraid or lacking in confidence, but suddenly there's five guys including the one I have trapped and, should this get ugly…as ugly as these five not so brilliant specimens of humanity…I know I'd be in some trouble. 

"He's a fucking faggot."

"Yeah, watch out, man. He'll fuck you up the ass. Look how he's holding you!"

"He's gonna fucking fag rape you!"

And then the one I'm holding manages to kick his lower leg up into my testicles and I cry out, releasing him. The pain screams right through me and out of my ears and I'm doubled over with tears in my eyes when I feel the next blow…and the next…and the next. I try to get up but they kick me down just as fast. I try to use self defense but I'm grossly outnumbered and there are fists and feet…boots…ooh, steel caps, nice, but not nice for me…legs…forearms…heads…everything, anything… And I hear the music again, loud, thundering, through my ears, through my body, a heartbeat, pounding, pounding…with pain, with heat…pounding.

"No!" Her voice, I can hear her. My goddess, my Torrie "No, stop it! Leave him! Leave him alone!"

And the other voices, grunts as they beat me, shouts that I'm gay, that I'm a son of a bitch.

"Leave him alone, you jerks! Billy! Billy, help!"

She's an angel. She's my angel. And she's come to save me, to take me to heaven. And then I hear nothing and everything is still.

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A/N - Still with me? Thanks heaps for the reviews. You've definitely made me want to continue this and I'm glad there are so many Rico fans out there!! Please keep reviewing, because this story isn't set in stone yet and any ideas and/or feedback would be greatly appreciated, especially if you can suggest some songs that you think would 'go' with this fic as I'd like to have one for each chapter. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The things I own would blow your mind, but I don't own any people. Especially not the ones in this story. The song is 'Magic' by Ben Folds Five and when I saw/heard it in concert it reduced me to tears.

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You're the magic that holds the sky up from the ground.

You're the breath that blows these cool winds 'round.

Trading places with an angel now.

Saw you last night

Dance by the light of the moon.

Stars in your eyes

Free from the life that you knew.

Saw you last night

Stars in your eyes

Smiled in my room.

Hallucinatory bliss. Pain and morphine are a potent mix and I spend twelve glorious hours with Torrie, flying far above the earth. She's an angel in a white gown, a wedding gown, yards and yards of pristine satin, and there are flowers in her hair, silken white blooms strewn through cascades of platinum waves. We exchange vows, our voices blending, musical magnificence and her fingers slip so perfectly through mine. Finally, the kiss, supernal bliss, capturing me with its glory, transcending time and space and I hear her voice, floating upon a summer breeze, speaking confidently of the horrors of spandex and its role in our profession, of leather and lace, of what Donna Karan's been doing this past month. And then I open my eyes to a shock of white and the bland, antiseptic smell I know to be a hospital ward. 

A dream. Nothing more than an exquisite delusion, shattered by the ugliness and cruelty that is life. I hurt from head to toe…but mostly head…and I feel what must be a black eye throbbing above my left cheekbone. Devastating. Abruptly, I tense in fear. Is anything broken? Am I disfigured? Will I heal? The terror of every pro wrestler who's ever looked into a mirror and said to himself, 'you know, you're quite a guy.' You weigh up what might happen in the ring to change the looks that have made you just as famous as your signature moves. But of course, this didn't happen in the ring. I can remember, plain as day. A group of street thugs, a misunderstanding, a beat-down worse than anything I've felt inside that wrestling ring. If I thought it'd do any good, now would be the perfect time to begin hyperventilating, but of course it won't do any good. And so I do the next thing I think of. I cry.

And that's when I hear it, the same as before. The musicality of the perfect feminine voice, reciting something…something about an edgy designer from SoHo. Groggily, I turn my head just slightly and there she is. My goddess, my Torrie, sitting in a high-backed hospital chair with one leg crossed over the other, reading aloud from a thick glossy magazine. She is exquisite, clothed entirely in white, just as she was in my dream, only reality is not a flowing, shapeless gown. Reality is the perfectly tailored pants suit, no nonsense high-heeled, pointy toed pumps and what appears to be a corset top, hugging her toned, tanned flesh. I want to applaud, I want to cheer, but all I manage is a pained moan and a breathless whisper of her name.

"Torrie…"

I've startled her and she jumps, before fixing her gaze on me and slowly, slowly breaks into a smile that turns me completely to liquid.

"Oh hi, Rico. You're awake!"

I blink and surreptitiously clear my throat, trying to dislodge a clump of what can only be mucus. Disgusting.

"Is that…" I begin, hating the hoarseness that I can't seem to shake. "Is that Vogue?"

Her face lights up, eyes sparkling like cerulean rhinestones. "Yes, it's the current issue. It's huge! You should see all the advertisements in here for everything you can possibly imagine."

I swallow again. I'm thirsty, dehydrated and my head is throbbing like a dance music beat from the club we visited last night.

"What's in?" I ask, partly because I'm desperate to take my mind off my own situation and partly because I really do want to know, having not had the opportunity to browse the latest Vogue before now.

"Depends what part of the world," Torrie replies and I'm captured by her lips upon which she's swept a gloss with just the slightest tint. Oh, she's lovely. Her eyes, her lips, her nose, the shape of her face, her sculpted eyebrows and long flowing locks. Her entire style, be it sleek and sultry or wild and sexy. I love it all. I love her. I truly love her and I'm just lost in her voice and her beauty as she goes through New York and the next thing I know, we've moved on to London.

"Harem pants, little black dresses…"

"Of course," I cut in, smiling despite myself. In truth, there can't possibly be an article of clothing that's done more for womankind than the little black dress…or maybe the bikini.

"Oh, I know," Torrie agrees, all dimples once more, a smile of so many watts I nearly combust. "I have like five."

"Only five?" I laugh. 

She shrugs demurely and I'm sure I must be drooling. "Well, black's not exactly my color."

I scoff and titter briefly. "Torrie, sometimes black is the only color."

"Yes," she agrees, nodding and grinning. "But white is the new black." She sets the magazine down next to her purse and skims her hands over her outfit.

I swallow, struggling to maintain at least a tentative grip on my thoughts as the invasiveness of desire sets in. "White's been the new black for at least a year."

Her face falls and now she looks positively mortified. "Oh, am I last season? How embarrassing!"

"Torrie," I breathe, still relishing the taste of her name on my lips. "You always look magnificent."

She pauses, contemplatively twirling a neat lock of hair around her finger. And then she looks back up at me, rendering me breathless once more.

"Really?"  
I stare at her dreamily, absorbing every feature of her loveliness. "Absolutely."

And that's when the clump in my throat that has threatened to embarrass me all this time finally has its way. I'm coughing, coughing and spluttering, head arched forward near my chest.

"Oh, Rico!" Torrie cried, bouncing over to me. "Are you okay?" Her hand is on my shoulder, she's caressing me and, of course, being the smoothest man on the face of the earth, all I can do is choke.

"W-water," I croak out.

She gets it for me, hurries back. I drink it down, nearly spurting it everywhere as the next coughing fit assaults my airways. Finally I can breathe easily and I grab for her, my whole body still trembling with pain, uneasiness and despair, because I've just touched my face and there's a sticking plaster on my cheek.

"Rico," she soothes as I begin choking again, on my tears this time. "I'm so sorry, Rico. If we'd waited for Chuck and Billy, if I hadn't lost you…"

I'm sobbing now, sobbing like a little baby. 

"What do I look like?" I cough. "What happened to me?"  
I stare at her urgently, clutch at her forearms. I hate this role reversal. It should be Chuck or Billy, anyone but her. Oh, what she must think of me. But she looks sympathetic. Unfortunately, she also looks apprehensive and I know then that I'm about to be struck with bad news.

"Tell me," I beg, still squeezing her arms. "Please, tell me."  
She hesitates again and I'm all but shaking her, as much as I hate myself for doing it. I have to know. I have to know now.

"Your sideburns…" she manages finally.

"My…" My hands fly to the sides of my face. My sideburns! They're gone!

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A/N - So ends chapter three. Thanks heaps for all your comments and please keep them coming. After a week's absence, I'm finally back in the groove for this story and hopefully there won't be quite so long a wait before chapter four. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: All characters are owned by the McMahon family and World Wrestling Entertainment. The song is 'Cut My Hair' by The Who (and I can't even tell you how long it took to find!)

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Why should I care  
If I have to cut my hair?  
I've got to move with the fashions  
Or be outcast.

I know what you're probably thinking. Why would a man who so overtly proclaims himself to be at the cutting edge of fashion even attempt to grow the wonders that are, or rather, were, my sideburns? Surely _those_ can't be in fashion! And that's true. But you see, style is individual, taking what the designers see as the next big things (and no I'm not talking about that no-necked monstrosity Brock Lesnar) and adding your own personal spin on them to achieve true stylistic perfection. With my sideburns, I had this. From top to toe I was straight from the cover of _next_ month's GQ - a fashion leader, a trend for the future, a one-man runway show. Now, without my sideburns, I'm what I always feared. I'm average.

A sob catches in my throat and I can't see for the tears in my eyes. Torrie appears as through a kaleidoscope, standing before me, holding my hand, stroking it with long, delicate fingers, her nails flawlessly manicured. But I can't enjoy this touch, oh no. I have her touch, I have her sympathy. I don't want her sympathy! I want her love. But I can't have it. She would never love me. Not only am I a hideous Quasimodo with a mammoth failing of facial hair, but she's in love with someone else. And then, to rub it in, he decides to show up.

He speaks to Torrie first, just as I would, had I the choice between the two of them.

"I just called Steph. Everything's taken care of."

"Oh good!" Torrie smiles. "Look, Billy. He woke up."

"Hey," Kidman smiles, turning to me. "How you feeling, champ?"  
How am I feeling? How am I feeling? My life is over, Torrie Wilson will never love me and you, ferret boy, are luckier than you could ever know. I'm far into my session of self-despair and sulking, so I don't even bother to answer. I don't need to. Superboy here has decided to go on.

"Looks like they did a good job of putting you back together. You were a real mess when we brought you in here."

I turn my head to glower at him, my jaw tightening despite the pain. 

"They shaved my sideburns," I hiss through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, they had to," Kidman confirms with a casual nod. "Those little jerks gave you a few good ones. You needed some stitches. Looks good though, right Torrie?"

"Yeah," she agrees, though she doesn't mean it. I can tell.

"They shaved my sideburns!" He doesn't seem to understand that these sideburns mean more to me than the sum of their parts, and now someone has seen fit to send them floating down a drain awash with shaving cream and water, reducing them to no more than tiny fragments of filamentous protein.

"It's hair, dude," Kidman replies, an ironic little smile on his face. And of course to him it is just hair. To him hair is just something to be pulled back into a ratty ponytail and hidden under a baseball cap. Hair is something to be washed no more than once every lunar cycle, just to prevent it from becoming dreadlocks because that, of course, would be making a fashion statement. Hair doesn't make statements. It just is. In happier times I would feel sorry for this attitude, but right now I'm far too busy feeling sorry for myself.

"You don't understand," I mutter, knowing that a frown is unattractive, but not managing to stop myself. 

"They'll grow back," Torrie assures me, and at that moment I hate her. Surely she must understand. How would she feel if someone decided to shave her head without asking? I shudder at the thought. What a tragedy it would be. 

"You don't understand."

"I do understand, Rico," she tells me, patting my arm. "But it's going to be okay. Life goes on."

"They _were_ my life!" I growl so savagely that I'm sure I must have spat on her. "They were my reason for living, my joie de vivre. They were not…just…sideburns!"

"Well, you've got almost a week to get those sideburns back, good as new," Kidman announces. "I just spoke to Stephanie and told her what happened. She says you shouldn't worry about coming to work until next Thursday's SmackDown. So you can go home, grow your sideburns, do some shopping, watch some Oprah."

Oprah? Oh how I loathe you, Billy Kidman. And yet, look at what he just said. With those words, he's given me a reason to become reclusive for a week. To hide my scarred face from anyone who may consider mocking me. To regroup regarding Torrie. And though I love my job, here, now, the whole idea of some time off seems absolutely perfect.

"Thank you," I say quietly. 

"No problem, man," he smiles. "I mean, it was kind of me and Torrie's fault. We should have been looking out for you, since you went there with us. Oh, but speaking of that, they'll probably let you go today, and when they do, you've gotta go to the police station and make a statement. They caught the little bastards who did this, and me and Torrie told them what happened, but I guess they need to hear from you before they can charge them."

I ponder this for a moment - this need to make a statement and the situations leading to my stay in hospital and the removal of my sideburns. It was simply a misunderstanding. I was being somewhat too friendly with the girlfriend of the head honcho and he and his buddies laid me a beating. I probably would have done the same, to tell you the truth. And yes, it's tragic for me, but those are the facts.

"I don't want to make a statement," I announce.

"Why not?" Torrie frowns. "What they did to you, Rico, it shouldn't be allowed to happen at all."

"It was just a misunderstanding," I tell her tiredly. "In many ways, I deserved it."

"No you didn't!" she insists. "Why should you be persecuted for what you are! Things like this happen too often, Rico. You have to make a statement so they can be stopped. It's not your fault. Why should these thugs be allowed to gang-beat you just because you're gay?"  
And that's it. I've had enough.

"Get out!" I snap. 

"Rico?" Torrie frowns.

"Get out!" I yell again. "I don't want you here anymore. Just get out and leave me alone."

"Are you…"

"Leave me alone!"

And finally they go, Torrie and Kidman, side by side. The dam breaks once more and I burst into tears, weeping loudly into my hands, my chest heaving as I gasp for air. It's all too much. My sideburns, my Torrie, gone. I can't take it. It's too much.

* * * *

It's Wednesday when the phone call comes, the day before I have to return to life. I'm not ready. I've spent the last few days inside my apartment, sitting on my couch, watching TV and eating vast quantities of Belgian chocolates and gourmet Rocky Road ice cream, not caring that they'll both go directly to my hips. Rocky Road. An apt metaphor for my life of the moment. 

Sometimes my toy poodle Donatella joins me for a particularly good program, but most of the time, even she can't stand to be around me. Not that I blame her in the slightest. I am wearing sweatpants (sweatpants!) and a ratty T-shirt some distant relative bought for me as a joke on a trip to France when I gushed to them beforehand about all the fashion opportunities they would have. Even I, Rico, own sweatpants and a food-stained T-shirt, although these stains are fresh and from Rocky Road ice cream, so I'm really not sure if that counts. On my face is a thick, unkempt batch of facial hair that I must somehow tame before venturing back to work tomorrow. The doctors told me not to shave until my stitches dissolve, and I'm taking that advice very much to heart in the attempt to recreate the former splendor of my sideburns. My eyes are red from too many sleepless nights and waking from nightmares where Torrie Wilson had thick sideburns and Billy Kidman wore a long white gown and kept giving me come-hither glances. Needless to say, I've woken up screaming several times this week. Frankly, I look like a wino. I know this because while I was walking home from the grocery store yesterday, carrying enough ice cream and candy to keep me going, someone offered me a dollar. But it's only while watching 'Clueless' for the third time running (don't even get me started on how much I love that movie), with Donatella licking another fresh Rocky Road stain from my shirt, that I realize I've hit the bottom of the barrel. I want to burst into tears. I want to pick myself up by the collar of my shirt and shake some sense into my stupid mind. I want to glare into a mirror until the full realization of what I've become finally hits me. I want a cucumber facial and a long soak in a hot bath scented with peach oil. I want to be me again.

And that's when the phone rings.

"Hello?" Oh boy. I sound as bad as I look and I'm seriously pitying whoever it is that has called.

"Rico? It's Chuck."

I have to smile. How I've missed him. "Hello, baby boy. How are you? Are you and Billy winning your matches without me?"

"Oh, we're doing okay. Listen, Rico…"

But I interrupt him. Suddenly hearing his deep soothing voice, I want to know. I want to know everything. "Did you exfoliate today and Saturday? Are you using the right cleanser?"

"Uh, yeah," Chuck replies slowly. "I got the dry skin, right?"

And that just about gives me a heart attack. "Chucky, no! You have _combination_ skin! You know you have to be careful about your problem zones. Please, please, tell me you're not using the dry skin cleanser."

There's a pause that seems to take forever, before I suddenly hear laughter. "Got ya! Of course I'm using the right one, I just wanted to make you wet yourself."

"You little bitch!" I scowl.

"Haha," Chuck laughs. "And easy on the 'little'. We both know that's not true. So how are you doing, anyway? I bet Donatella's happy her daddy's home."

I smile down at the puppy, who can obviously tell she's the topic of conversation, because she gets up from her basket, trots over to me and begins pawing my lap.

"Yes she is, aren't you, baby?" I comment, scratching her behind the ears. "But as for me?" I sigh. "Just be happy you can't see me now, Chuck. You'd lose all respect for me."

"A fine looking man like you?" Chuck asks incredulously. "Never!"

"Thanks, Chuck. But, once I get myself cleaned up, I'll return tomorrow and I'll know whether you've been telling the truth about that cleanser. You do know you're supposed to use it morning and night? And follow it with a toner and moisturizer?"

"Yes, Rico," Chuck replies mockingly. "But boy am I glad you're coming back."

"You are? Oh, that's sweet. I miss you too."

"Yeah, yeah," Chuck mumbles. "I kinda need your support."

"You do? Chuck, what's happened? Are you and Billy okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay. We're fine. You know Bill…but actually, that's what I need to talk to you about. I um…oh, man…I've decided I wanna…" He pauses and I can hear him taking a deep breath. "I want Billy Gunn to be mine forever…there, I said it. So, whaddaya think?"

What do I think? I scream in delight and when I speak, I'm simply unable to contain my excitement.

"Oh, Chucky! That's fantastic! I can't believe my boys are getting married! Argh!"

"Hey, I haven't asked him yet," Chuck reminds me. "I mean, what if he says no?"  
"He won't," I promise. "He loves you, Chuck. You know he loves you. And who wouldn't? You're positively beautiful. Oh, this is fantastic! What do you want me to do? Should I book a restaurant? Find you a tux? How do you want to do this? This is your night, Chuck, yours and Billy's and it has to be just perfect."

"Yeah, I know, I…I know," Chuck stutters. "I wanna do it in the ring."

"In the ring? Oh Chuck, what a marvelous idea. Do you have a ring for Billy?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. It's real nice. I…look, Rico, I've never done this before and…well, could you help me? I want to do it right."

"Chucky," I breathe. "I would be honored. Tomorrow night on Smackdown, we will do this, you and me, and Billy will be so happy! Oh, I'm so excited. Argh, I'm gonna plan a wedding! Of course Billy's going to say yes. Chuck, I'm so glad you asked me."

"Yeah, me too," Chuck replies. "So, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Absolutely. Oh, wow. I'm so glad you're including me."

Chuck laughs. "Bye Rico."

"Bye!"

I set the phone down and scoop Donatella into the air. "Did you hear that, baby girl? Daddy's boys are getting married! I'm going to plan a wedding!"

* * * *

Everything has gone off without a hitch and now my boys are getting hitched. Billy said yes, as I'd known he would and now we're heading back to the locker room. They're all over each other, of course, but the funny thing is that no one seems to mind. I guess it's true after all. Everyone does love a wedding. 

As for me, I'm happy to say that I'm almost back to my old self. My sideburns have all but grown in and, thanks to a rigorous deep cleansing and exfoliating session, I have no blemishes to tell the tale of my week of bad food. The stitches have already begun to dissolve, and even my black eye has all but healed, although it has required careful application of concealer and foundation to get me through tonight.

I walk behind my boys, smiling dotingly as they talk to each other in low voices and occasionally exchange sweet little kisses. Requited love is so beautiful. I long for the time to come when it happens to me.

"Rico! Billy! Chuck!"

"Boys, wait," I call, grabbing for Billy's arm so they'll stop. 

Just when I thought this night couldn't possibly get any better, here is Torrie Wilson, looking simply divine in a white lacy top and tight jeans - Sevens? They must be. She's obviously forgiven me for my outburst in the hospital ward and, to top it off, she's alone.

"I just had to say congratulations!" she gushes, beaming at all three of us and hypnotizing me again with those adorable dimples. "I just love weddings and I think you guys are so cool for doing this, for expressing your love this way. I can't wait until I get married."

My heart jumps into my throat. "You…you're getting married?" I gasp out, choking on my words.

"Yes, of course. Some day," she smiles at me. "I have to find a guy first."

"You…" I swallow, simply unable to believe what I've just heard. "You mean you and Kidman aren't…?"

"Oh no," she replies, still smiling. "I mean, we used to date, a while ago, but now we're just friends." She thinks for a moment, her face scrunching slightly into a pretty little frown. Forget what I said about frowns earlier, on her they are as perfect as any other expression. "You know, like Jerry and Elaine on 'Seinfeld'."

"Really." 

So here it is, here's my chance. Don't blow it, Rico, please don't blow it.

"Well, like I said, congratulations," she calls again. "See you later. Oh, and Rico. I'm glad you're better. Bye!"

"Torrie, wait."

This is it. I've called her back. She's stopped. She's staring at me expectantly. My time has come.

"I have a busy week ahead of me, planning this wedding," I hear myself say. "And I already have some good ideas. But what I think I really need is a woman's touch and I honestly can't think of anyone more perfectly stylish than you." I pause, giving her time to think, even to rebuke me, before I go on. "Would you like to come shopping with me?"

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A/N: I know I say this every time, but it's really starting to flow for me now. Thanks so much for your reviews, they really keep me going and let me know that I'm doing this thing right. *hugz* and I'll see you next time. 


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